


Dangerous men in dark rooms

by crushing83



Series: Bullets and Blades [2]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard is reincarnated, Bard lives many lives, M/M, Modern Era, Reincarnation, happens a few of years before Fast & Furious 6, poor use of elvish, pre-Furious 6, somehow Thranduil finds him every time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushing83/pseuds/crushing83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a day of work and training, Thranduil meets a man named Owen Shaw in a local pub. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [黑暗房间中那个危险的男人](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666899) by [rr89757](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rr89757/pseuds/rr89757)



Thranduil's identity after Michael was going to be a harder man, more like the warrior he'd been when his father was king than the photographer-turned-model he'd been with the painter. It had become increasingly difficult, as technology advanced, to find someone to provide an identity that could withstand increasingly strict security; but he'd managed to find someone talented enough to do the work for an acceptable (but high) price and minimal questions. 

He'd be Kendall Monroe for at least the next few years, as much as the name irked him. He missed the dulcet tones of Silvan and Sindarin, and the poetry in his peoples' names. He did his best to remember his language and culture---he'd recorded his favourite songs and stories on paper, on vinyl, and then on cassette before making digital copies to set aside---but he only spoke to himself in the languages of the Woodland Realm whenever he was completely alone. 

Kendall Monroe taught archery. He'd not used a bow and arrow in at least three hundred years. It wasn't a concern; his abilities were all but burned into his muscles' memory. He always tried to pick a career different from the last, something to occupy his time and assist in the building of his alias' life, and he was becoming bored with the arts (although it pained him to admit it). 

He knew from experience if he went looking for Bard, he'd never find him. He had to live a life and wait, as patiently as he could; if it were meant to be, Bard would come to him, in one way or another. 

Thranduil arranged to work at a shooting range, so he wouldn't be responsible for maintaining a facility himself. Posting advertisements and visiting legitimate weapons and hunting supply stores to introduce himself resulted in a few clients and over the next year, he'd earned a reputation through his students---a couple of which did well at competitions---as being a tough, skilled teacher who could fire an arrow and hit any target, still or moving. 

Teaching others to use a bow and arrow was a reminder of his son. Every time he loosed an arrow, he thought of Legolas. The world had changed so much, he had no way of knowing what had happened to the land to which his kin had sailed. The unknown was unpalatable to consider; he chose to picture his son with his friends, members of the guard he'd dispatched to the Undying Lands, and the other lords and ladies, unburdened by threat or sadness. That was what he thought of when he sent his arrows flying. 

They'd had contact before parting ways and their old hurts had been repaired. Before he left to regroup at Imladris, Legolas had asked him to join them; Thranduil had smiled sadly and shook his head. 

_"I will miss you," he told his son. "Never doubt that. But you are meant to go on. To celebrate your victory with your friends."_

_"And you are meant to stay here and grieve, my lord?"_

_Thranduil reached out and embraced his son in an uncharacteristically emotional move. Legolas was surprised but returned the hug._

_"I love you. If you continue on with our people then I will continue on in you," he whispered to his son._

_"Ada..."_

_Thranduil squeezed his son, grown up but still his child, and smiled into his hair. "You will always be in my heart,_ pen neth _."_

_Legolas snorted. Then, he pulled away from his father and reached to his pack. He produced his bow---the bow he'd made for fighting, his favourite---and passed it to his father._

_"Keep this safe and well-used for me?"_

_"I will treasure it," Thranduil promised._

He'd tried to keep the bow in one piece, but eventually, time degraded the quality of the wood and he'd had to decide what to do with its remains. A piece of it, he'd carved into a pendant, and he wore it around his neck on a leather thong that was easily replaced when it was worn out; the rest of it had gone into storage (once a trunk he never let out of his sight---and had nearly gotten killed trying to protect more than once---but currently a very nearly disaster-proof box he kept hidden under the floor of his secret home) to keep his former lives and memories safe. The wood against his heart was well worn and stony, but had surprisingly survived to date. In another few decades, he might have to retire that piece and replace it with another, but for the time being, it was fine. 

He'd made himself a bow---one similar to those his guards had used when he'd been king---and he made his own arrows. No student ever saw him use those; they were for the times he was alone, testing his skills or warming his muscles or relaxing his mind. He could close his eyes, feel the carved wood in his fingers, and trick himself into momentarily thinking he was back in his forest with Bard and his long bow at his side or with his young son in front of him. 

Sometimes, in the evenings when he was alone at the range, he gave in to the memories of battle. As he did on that particular evening, to pull himself out of his more bittersweet memories, he unwrapped and unsheathed out his swords---ancient but beautiful relics of a former age, their endurance thoroughly tested---and swung them around in the routines and maneuvers that his father had taught him, that he had taught Legolas. 

And Bain. 

And Tilda. 

And---

He broke away from that particular train of thought and swung one of his swords in an arc as he spun on the ball of his foot. He lunged forward and dropped to one knee before completing the rest of the routine. 

He stayed on the floor for a minutes when he was done. Then, he rose to his full height and lowered his weapons. He listened carefully and heard the facility's janitor in one of the locker rooms. It was nearly time for him to leave. 

The elf went to the target at the other side of the room and retrieved his handmade arrows. He put them in his quiver; he repackaged his swords and put them and the quiver into his oversized gym bag. Then, he took his bow, set it inside its case and tucked that in the bag, too. His teaching bow would stay at the shooting range, in his locker, but his personal bow always went home with him. 

"G'night, Mr. Monroe. You headin' out for the ev'nin'?"

Thranduil looked up at the grizzled janitor and smiled a bit. "Yes. I stayed late to practice... do you want me to lock up?" 

"If you wouldn' mind, that'd be a help."

"Then I will," the elf replied. He hefted his bag off the table; he tipped his head. "Goodnight, Jackson." 

"See you later, Mr. Monroe." 

Thranduil left the shooting range and headed for his car. In the shadows, he could have sworn he felt someone watching him, but he chalked it up to a combination of tiredness and the slight uptake in adrenaline after his sword exercises. He gave himself a mental shake and put his bag in the trunk of his sports car. 

He got into the driver's seat and headed to the building where he (or Kendall Monroe, anyway) lived. 


	2. Chapter 2

His apartment was above a quiet neighbourhood's pub. It was his---Kendall's---habit to eat supper downstairs before slipping up to his small, private home. 

The bartender waved to him; the elf waved back. He took his usual seat in one of the booths by the front windows. He didn't bother opening a menu because the staff knew he'd take a glass of his favourite wine and the daily special. 

He smiled when the waitress brought him his wine and the daily paper. He could have gotten his news from his phone, but he still preferred the tangible feel of a paper to sterile digital information. 

He spread out the journal and started skimming through the headlines. By the time he'd gotten through half of the pages and a few of the articles, his meal was placed on the table next to the paper. 

"Thank you," he said politely. 

The waitress, Bonnie, smiled at him. She left him to his own devices and he divided his time between the fish and chips, his buttery Chardonnay, and the newspaper. The first and second were delicious; the third was informative but dry. 

He ordered another glass of wine after his meal. He didn't often do that, but he wasn't ready to retreat to his solitude. A band was playing folk tunes at the back of the pub, the patrons were cheerful and weren't too many, and the wine was worth a second taste. 

A well-muscled man entered the pub and took up a post by the bar. He was sitting on a stool and he ordered a drink, but there was something in his position that did not suggest he was having a casual ale at the end of his day. 

Thranduil frowned, wondering who the man was and what he was doing; he picked up his newspaper and used it as a shield as he peered around the room for clues. 

His clue was a welcomed surprise. 

He had short hair, he was carrying three hidden weapons under his designer clothes, and he was definitely being watched (protected) by the man at the bar. 

He was his Bard. 

Thranduil put his paper down and stared. The short hair was different---he'd been used to Michael's long curls---but the scruff on his face was almost the same. 

Very few of Bard's reincarnations preferred a clean-shaven face. 

The hidden weapons and the casual power in his stance were new; a few of Bard's reincarnations had been fighters, but none had exuded so much carefully controlled danger. 

The man shared a brief glance with his colleague and then he strode to the back of the pub. He took one of the remaining vacant booths and made a phone call as he perused the menu on the table. 

Woodland elves had been known for being less wise and very dangerous. Thranduil had been so careful for so long, often circling his loves carefully until they noticed and approached him, and he was feeling like honoring his people by being less careful and taking a risk. 

Bard's reincarnations usually appreciated simpler pleasures, but every once and a while, there was one that preferred the finer things a well-financed life could offer. Thranduil knew by looking at him that the "new" Bard would not want "just whatever's cold and on tap," so he studied the wine and liquor list and decided on an expensive Shiraz. He told his waitress he wanted to gift the entire bottle to the man who'd taken the last booth in the back. 

Bonnie nodded, smiled, and left to do her job. 

Fifteen minutes later, she returned with a note. 

_Nice taste. Seems a shame not to share it. Care to join me?_

Thranduil smiled at the man from across the room. He nodded and rose. After putting a couple of bills on the table to cover his own food and drink and tip, he made his way through the growing crowd and sauntered to the man's table.

"And what have I done to catch the attention of such a dangerous man?"

Thranduil felt his cheeks warm. Michael had called Thranduil beautiful. So had nearly every one of Bard's reincarnations. Very few of them recognised the lethal strength he hid from everyone (or the small knives secreted on his person, out of habits thousands of years old); fighting wasn't a requirement of survival anymore, he wasn't leading or in an army, and he rarely used his skills in public. He was flattered by the different sort of attention.

"You walked into the pub." 

"Owen Shaw," he said as he extended his hand. 

He put his hand into Owen's; warmth settled in the pit of his stomach. 

"Kendall Monroe." 

Owen smiled. "That's not your real name, is it?" he inquired. 

"I do not... I don't understand---" 

The man motioned towards the space on the bench next to him. Thranduil took it, sitting with enough space between them to give him room to move quickly if he had to do so. It helped that Owen was on his right side; he'd be able to see any threat more easily that way. 

"I've tried to discern your identity, but have come up empty. I hate to admit it, but sometimes the truth works better when trying to gain information." 

"You..." 

"You're a curious man, Kendall Lee Monroe. Sharp shooters who prefer bows and arrows to guns and bullets are rare enough for me to take notice," Owen continued. "I find it's in my best interest to keep track of new talent when it appears on my radar." 

"And I've... appeared on your radar? Why?" 

"I am a businessman, of sorts. I'm always looking for new employees for specific projects." 

Thranduil kept his face blank as his mind processed the information Owen was giving him. The newest reincarnation was a dangerous man who did not live within the law, the elf decided. If he hadn't been a version of Bard, he would have walked away and done his best to get off of Owen's radar; but, he was, so Thranduil felt compelled to stay. 

"I am a teacher..." 

"A noble profession." 

Thranduil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

Owen smiled. "I doubt most teachers carry knives in their boots," he commented casually. 

He moved to pour Thranduil a glass of wine---there was a clean glass in the middle of the table---but the elf stopped him and flagged a server down to request a new glass. 

Something told him he still needed to be careful. He didn't suspect Owen would poison him, but he didn't want to be _too_ reckless. 

Owen tipped his head back and laughed. Thranduil allowed himself to openly admire the stretch of his neck and the flash of his teeth. How those elongated canines returned time after time, the elf did not know, but it took all of his resolve not to remember how they felt when biting down into the flesh of his ass. 

"I like you, not-Kendall. You're dangerous and cautious," he said as he turned and looked at the elf, "and very pretty." 

"That sort of remark could offend most men."

"You are not most men." 

Thranduil smirked. "No, I'm not." 

The server returned with a new glass for Thranduil; Owen poured a decent measure of the red wine into it. 

"To what are we drinking?" Thranduil inquired. 

"New relationships," Owen said decidedly. 

Thranduil smiled; he sipped the wine after they both raised their glasses. It was deliciously peppery. He smiled more and turned a bit so he could watch Owen better. 

"Will I be resigned to calling you Kendall forever?" Owen asked. "I gave you my name." 

The elf smiled again. "I suspect you don't hide your identity to build your reputation." 

"I only conceal my location. And my business intentions." 

"My reputation should only be that of an archery instructor," he said. 

"If it's protection you want---"

"Privacy," Thranduil interrupted. "I want privacy. Not notoriety."

Owen's next smile was small, but more sincere. It settled in his eyes, making him seem warm and safe. 

"It will stay between us," he said quietly. 

Thranduil stared at him, trying to decide if he should tell Owen his name. Reminding himself of his elves' reputation and of his own position's possibilities again, he sipped his wine, swallowed, and spoke. 

"Thranduil," he said, his voice almost a whisper. 

Owen's smile faded into an expression of seriousness. He reached out, touched Thranduil's arm, and nodded. 

"Your secret's safe with me," he murmured. 

Thranduil felt his face flush again. He mentally cursed his body---but not for long, because Owen was watching him and smiling. The man was incredibly distracting when he smiled. 

"Who are you hiding from?" he asked. 

"The world." 

Owen chuckled. "I can understand that," he commented. He drained his glass and refilled it. Then, he topped off Thranduil's glass. "I promise you, no one will learn your name from me." 

"Thank you. It would be a hassle to have to relocate and get a new identity." 

Owen laughed again. 

Thranduil leaned back in the bench, curling towards the man a little more. He drank his wine and contemplated the potential his future would hold if Owen was amenable to being a part of it. 

"Are you here to try to kill me, Thranduil?" Owen asked quietly, laughter still in his voice. 

Thranduil blinked. He didn't flinch away, but he did tense, preparing for any possibility as best as he could. 

"A few have tried," Owen continued. He was still smiling as he looked at the elf. "I'd regret killing someone as lovely as you." 

"I'm not here to try anything of the sort."  

Owen's smile softened. "Good." 

"I didn't even know you existed until you walked in tonight," he added. 

"I've known you existed since I saw your advertisement at a shop I frequent." 

"Not that long, then," Thranduil said. 

When Owen nodded, he felt some measure of relief that his previous identities were (probably) still well-kept secrets. If he had to go into hiding, he could get to the emergency kit in his flat and use what papers he'd kept close for that very purpose. 

"Why would you consider hiring someone whose skills are ineffective against modern day weaponry?" Thranduil inquired. "You are a soldier. Soldiers haven't used bows and arrows for a very long time." 

"They haven't used swords in a very long time, either," Owen commented, "yet you are beyond proficient in both types of combat." he paused and smiled. "You intrigue me." 

Thranduil couldn't decide if he was flattered or unnerved by Owen's words. 

"You've been watching me." 

"I like to do my homework." Owen drank a bit more wine before speaking again. "I believe in precision. Every member of my team needs to be the right fit. They can be swapped out like pieces of machinery until the team is operating at its maximum potential, but I would prefer to make the right decision at the beginning, before the job starts." 

"And you think a man of my skills would fit on your team." 

"You are a superb marksman, but you are also an economical fighter. I watched every move you made with those blades, Thranduil. Not one movement was wasted. You were perfection."

"You saw me perform an exercise I've had a long time to perfect." 

"You know how to handle yourself in a fight," Owen insisted. "The skills in those exercises are transferable." 

Thranduil shrugged. He knew he could be a lethal fighter---he had been, as prince and as king and as a pretender of humanity when war called him into service---but he did not want to share that truth with a man he'd only just met, even if he was meant to be a reincarnation of his Bard. 

"But, beyond that, I will admit to having other thoughts as to how our time could be spent," Owen admitted quietly.  

No version of Bard had ever been like Owen. No version of Bard had ever disregarded the law---

Well, not for so much personal gain, Thranduil decided, as he recalled Bard's nearly-continuous conflict with the Master. 

Each reincarnation was a little different from the next. Owen seemed very different from Michael, but there were similarities to Bard so Thranduil decided his lover's essence was not completely lost to time. 

"I will consider your offer," Thranduil said. "Both of them." 

Owen grinned. "Brilliant." He reached into his jacket and produced a small black card. "My personal number," he explained. "But, I'll be in touch when I have a project that demands your skills." 

He offered Thranduil his hand; the elf accepted the gesture and slid his palm against Owen's palm. He expected a shake but received a gently firm squeeze. 

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Monroe," Owen said with a grin. "I look forward to the next time our paths cross." 

"As do I," Thranduil murmured. 

Owen slid around the other side of the table and eased out of the bench. He opened his wallet and put down enough to cover the wine and a generous gratuity. When Thranduil protested, Owen shook his head. 

"You can buy our next drink," Owen said. He reached out and tweaked Thranduil's chin lightly. "I'll choose it, if that helps even the score," he added with a little wink.  

The elf smiled. "Alright," he agreed. 

Owen left the table and strode for the exit. His colleague eased off of his stool at the bar and followed him out to the night. 

Thranduil waited in the booth for a few minutes before he waved to the bartender and headed to the back exit of the pub. A few minutes later, he was up the stairs and into his home. 

That night, he dreamed of Bard and battles. The next morning, he woke up wondering when he would see Owen again. 


	3. Chapter 3

It took six days before Owen reappeared. Thranduil had been exercising in the shooting range again, blades in his hands; he turned, preparing to strike an imaginary target and saw Owen leaning against the wall. He was wearing denim and leather, smirking as he took in Thranduil's form. 

"Nice," he commented. 

Thranduil smiled. "Thank you," he replied. "Would you like to learn?" 

"Sure." 

Thranduil went to his bag and pulled out another set of swords---man- and recently-made---and brought them back to the centre of the room as Owen approached. He'd shed his leather jacket and was pushing up the sleeves to his olive green shirt. 

He took them easily in both hands, weighing them. "They're different than yours." 

"They're still very old, and still very sharp." 

Owen grinned. "Good." 

Thranduil smiled. He showed Owen the starting stance and the first two movements, very slowly. Owen followed rather gracefully for a man; Thranduil was impressed with how well he balanced and shifted. 

He taught him the next five movements. They'd only had to repeat the fourth one a few times for Owen to get the gist of the required action. 

"Alright," Thranduil said quietly. "Now, from the beginning, but more quickly." 

Owen nodded. Thranduil counted them off and then they were moving again. 

They repeated the series of movements twice. 

When they were finished, Owen was smiling. "It's almost peaceful," he commented. "Such beauty and peace brings violence." 

"It can. It was taught to me as a way to centre myself and hone my skills," Thranduil explained. He'd only ever told Legolas the meaning behind those exercises, but felt there was no problem with sharing careful truths with Owen. "My father believed you needed to have a strong core to be successful in battle, to eliminate thought and enhance instinct. These exercises were meant to teach the body, to make muscles memorise the ways to move effectively, so you wouldn't second guess yourself in the heat of the moment." 

"Wise man." 

Thranduil shrugged. "To an extent, yes." 

"What happened to him?" 

"He died," the elf replied. 

Owen nodded. "Mine did, too. It's been me and my brother against the world for most of my life." He shrugged. Then, he passed the blades to Thranduil, hilts first. "Thank you for sharing that with me. I might come back for another lesson." 

Thranduil carefully divided his four blades between his two hands. He smiled. "I might be available to teach." 

The man grinned. "Good." He put his hands in his trousers' pockets. "Do you think your students would mind terribly if I took their instructor out for a drink tonight?" 

The elf's smile stretched. He'd wondered if Owen was there for personal or professional reasons; he was glad to know he'd appeared for personal reasons. "My students have gone home for the day." 

"Excellent. Does the instructor object?" 

"Not at all," Thranduil replied. "Let me put my things away and we can go." 

"Brilliant." 

Owen went to fetch his jacket while Thranduil took his weapons to his bag. He packed up his bow and arrows and placed his swords with them, before zipping the flap shut and slinging the bag's strap over his shoulder. He turned and faced the man, a smile on his face. 

"Shall we?" the elf asked. 

Owen nodded, still smiling broadly. They walked side by side through the gallery's doors and into the front room. Thranduil locked the doors as they went; he paused to set the building's alarm since the janitor wasn't there that night. 

After he locked the main doors, Owen guided him towards their cars. A sleek, dark vehicle was parked next to Thranduil's car. 

"Now, we can get there one of two ways," the man said. 

"Oh?" the elf asked. He went to his trunk and put his bag inside before slamming the metal panel shut. 

"The first is you can drive with me in my car and I get us there as quickly as I can," he explained. "The second is you can drive your own car and try to keep up." 

Thranduil smiled. "Those are my only two options?" 

"What other is there?" 

"A third: you tell me where we are going, and I beat you there." 

Owen's answering grin made him feel reckless again. He liked driving fast, but reserved high speeds for the roads by his----Thranduil's, not Kendall's---home. The idea of racing to their destination made his pulse quicken. He found he liked the sensation. 

The man rattled off the address---a building in a more industrial area of the city---and then he said: "Winner gets to pick the bottle of wine."

"Deal." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't decide if I like the idea of Owen hiring Thranduil or not. I'm working on figuring that out.
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Translations:   
> Ada = father, Dad  
> Pen neth = young one   
> (I'm sorry, I forgot to include these earlier.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully it won't take me too long to get the rest of this one posted! 
> 
> So, some of the time stuff is a bit wobbly-wobbly. And the science. I don't know if any of Legolas' bow would survive, but I liked the idea of him carrying a piece of it, so I went with it. 
> 
> (And thanks for putting up with this crazy idea of mine!)


End file.
